


Laid to Rest

by leporidae



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Fire Emblem Secret Santa 2018, Gen, Risen King Chrom, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-12 22:03:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16880067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporidae/pseuds/leporidae
Summary: Lucina meets Risen King Chrom.





	Laid to Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ierlix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ierlix/gifts).



> My Fire Emblem Secret ~~Anna~~ Santa gift! I appreciated being given an angsty prompt despite the holiday season supposedly being full of cheer. Risen King Chrom is always an interesting concept, and it was fun to think of my own interpretation of him. (Also, an alt in Heroes would be pretty rad.)

Again and again the blade of Falchion tears through the Risen, cutting through what was once human. Their bodies dissolve into nothing, puffs of dust snatched by the wind, human memories and feelings and  _ existences _ gusted away.

Lucina coughs, unable to avoid breathing in the particles of what was formerly a _person_ — it’s disturbing, and her throat itches with the thought. How many total strangers have decomposed in front of her by now? Tens? _Hundreds?_ And they are not creatures, as much as she tries to treat them as such, but victims; if she lets her own guard down but for a moment, she could easily join their ranks, reduced to a staggering, moaning ragdoll of flesh.

Her fingers curl tightly around the hilt of the sword, and though she refuses to shake, exhaustion permeates every inch of her body. Everything about her is hardened, from the calluses on her hands and feet to the sympathy she once felt for those she is forced to slaughter. For so long the sky has been gray and smoky as the world burns and burns and  _ burns. _ When was the last time she saw clear skies? Does she even remember what they look like, what sentiments they invoke?

For now the Risen seem to have subsided, and slowly Lucina returns the sword to its sheath, squinting at the ruined landscape through the ashes. Her mind is unyielding as she plans her next move for survival, her next desperate feat to save what friends she still has left. And she refuses to think of anything else, lest that get in the way of her resolve —

_ Father. _

Lucina collapses to the ground before she knows it, knees buckling as the memory of Chrom flashes through her mind unbidden. At one point in her life that face had filled her with warm comfort, the promise that everything would be all right and a bright future would be in her hands. Now even the image of her father constricts her throat and threatens to crush her otherwise unbending will.

_ Memories should not hurt me. _

“Lucina.”

She blinks, staring at the ground. Now she’s hallucinating — is that what her grief has finally come to?  Materializing her father’s voice in her head despite the unequivocal fact that  _ he’d _ — that  _ he’s _ —

_ I can’t even think it. _

Lucina looks up.

Through the haze of dust and smoke the vision before her is blurry, but the crunching of gravel beneath boots that resounds with every step as the figure moves toward her is very real. The flash of hope at the sight of familiar blue hair fades as quickly as it comes when Lucina takes a closer look at the…  _ thing _ wearing the guise of her father. The blade in his hand is not Falchion but unfamiliar, with a hilt jagged and harsh as a skeleton, and the harsh armor hides what is most certainly rotting flesh underneath. There’s no color in his face save for the blood red gleam in his eyes, and Lucina jerks back, reminded of the last time she had seen those eyes — not on her father, but glaring down at her from the face of his former tactician.

_ Who are you? _ Lucina tries to say, but her tongue lays thick in her mouth like lead, and the nausea and despair she had been pushing aside for so long threatens to claw up through her throat and burst to the surface. “Risen,” she croaks instead, a self-reminder that what stands before her is not Chrom, King of Ylisse, but something wearing his face. This “Chrom” is just like the nameless beings she had cut down moments before, and he too must be eliminated.

She  _ has _ to keep her friends safe. Her family, well… that had vanished a long time ago.

A low growl resounds in the creature’s throat, and it takes a moment for Lucina to realize the grotesque sound is  _ laughter _ . She remembers what Chrom’s laugh sounded like, light and airy and trusting, and this grating horror couldn’t be further from that.

“The Shepherds…”

The words are unmistakable, and Lucina inhales sharply. This isn’t  _ fair, _ that this creature wearing the face of her father also seems to share his memories. It will make it that much harder to pierce his hollow chest and scatter his remains across the wasteland of her former home, losing him a second time.

“...You… killed them.”

_ What? _

No, she refuses to let such thoughts consume her. This ruined future, it’s not her fault —  _ but it  _ is _ my fault, _ the parasitic guilt chimes in, and Lucina squints her eyes shut, not for the first time willing all of this to just  _ go away _ .

“Just now, my soldiers…” Chrom’s body lurches forward, and Lucina has the sense to scramble to her feet, her hand reflexively jumping back to the hilt of her ( _ his? _ ) sword. “We were fighting… together. For Grima. And you… you killed them…”

Suddenly Lucina remembers what she always tries to forget, that the Risen she cuts down day after day were people. Could it have been possible that today’s wave had been born from the bodies of the fallen Shepherds? In her mind the fight replays over and over with an increasing wave of disgust. The inhuman moans and wails that had been whisked away in a flurry of ashes — could they have belonged to Sumia or Frederick? Olivia or Cordelia? Henry or Tharja or Sully or Stahl or —

_ You killed them. _

A strangled cry escapes Lucina’s throat as she swings the sword, a chill convulsing through her body at the brief fear that Falchion will strike solid flesh, that perhaps her instinct had been wrong and Chrom is merely possessed, that her final blow truly will end his life for good. But the icy terror passes as quickly as it comes when the sword slashes through a gap in his armor, and metal clashes against  _ nothing _ ; he might as well have been air. The creature moans, staggering forward for an attack even as his nonexistent body begins to fade to the wind.

Usually when eradicating Risen, Lucina stays behind until she is certain the deed has been done.

This time, before Chrom has vanished completely, she runs.


End file.
